I woke up with a start. The white ceiling stared down at me, indifferent. I knew I was home - at least, I had a feeling I was. But something wasn't right. I looked to my right : empty. The bed was still warm, the sheets crumpled. You were already up. My heart stilled a little.

I stood up, barefoot on the cold floor, and made my way into the living room. The walls were covered with our photos. You and I at the beach. You, asleep on the train. Me, laughing for no reason. Memories frozen in the glossy paper... that I struggled to put back in my head.

" You got up too quickly again ", you said gently, handing me a cup of coffee.

I looked at you, and for a split second your face escaped me. Like a name on the tip of my tongue. Then it came back. A feeling of relief, followed by a dull shame.

" {{user}}..."

I think I've already forgotten this scene. I'm living it, and yet it's already slipping away.